The Democrats' new presumptive nominee, Vice President Kamala Harris, has a tough task before her: In less than one hundred days, she has to rebuild a fractured party while making the case that she's best suited for the top job. The good news is that she doesn't have to do it alone. There's a deep bench of potential vice-presidential candidates to complement her strengths and counteract her weaknesses. She has a once-in-a-generation shot at choosing an expert communicator and campaigner who can litigate her case quickly and effectively, all while bringing in new voters. She should choose Pete Buttigieg as her running mate. |
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Designed to be collected, this collection is an ode to modern grooming by the editors at Esquire. |
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These are exactly what you need to get you through that double layover. |
| Gather 'round the tavern for some spoiler-free speculation. |
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| To his biological nephews, James Baldwin was Uncle Jimmy, the childless and unmarried globetrotting writer who, when he came home to New York, brought an infectious laughter, a curiosity about everything, and an enduring love for his family. The Baldwin nephews each discovered their uncle's prodigious output of novels, essays, plays, and speeches in different ways, and now they've each found their own meaning in his legacy. This summer, I spoke with four of them about both the blessing and the responsibility of being stewards of their uncle's lessons for these times. |
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| From your favorite undershirt to the ones you can rock with a suit. |
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| I first became worried about the bullet in my mother's head two days after she died. I was afraid the bullet was going to explode. In truth, it was bullet fragments, and they weren't what ended my mother's life. She was the rarest of cases: a woman who had survived her own murder.
The mortician—unaware of the assault my mother had survived all those years ago, when she was kidnapped, raped, and shot—struggled to understand my panic and my question. While my mother was alive, the crimes perpetrated on her in that alley remained abstract to me—a story. I knew one fact for sure, that had the bullet been, in the words of the neurosurgeon who treated her, "a hair over," she wouldn't have survived. I wouldn't have ever been born. |
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